


(Don't) Bite the Bullet

by TwunkBucky (DeathlyHallows)



Series: Paraphiliac [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood, Cauterization, Drabble, Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish! Bucky, Knives, Paraphilias, Past Brainwashing, Self-Harm, Sexual Dysfunction, Suicidal Ideation, This is trash, Vomit, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, implied - Freeform, misuse of italics, neutralizing the asset, order through pain, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:31:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathlyHallows/pseuds/TwunkBucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not exactly a prequel, but an establishing fic for my WIP featuring Bucky as a paraphiliac. This will standalone, but is intended to lay the groundwork for what's to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Don't) Bite the Bullet

**Author's Note:**

> I had no intention of this becoming what it did, but here we are. I also didn't mean to end it that way, but my stories rarely go where I tell them. The violence is described in frank, unflowery language, as it is Third-Person Limited perspective, and Bucky is hardly poetic at this point in time. (Referring to him as "the Soldier" really fucked me up, more than any other part of it). Even so, it is fairly violent, so take care in reading. This takes place immediately after Bucky fishes Steve out of the Potomac.  
> Completely un-proofread, so...sorry?

He had disobeyed direct orders. He had _saved_ his target. He had failed to return to the base.  
The Soldier had gone rogue, and he knew it. He wondered what the protocol was for such a situation. Surely, should HYDRA recover him, he would be terminated.  
That thought gave the Soldier a sort of calm. Of course he would be found. You don't leave a tactical nuke lying around, why abandon any other weapon of mass destruction? The Soldier waited an hour, two, then seven. He had not been retrieved. Something had gone wrong.  
He considered his situation. If HYDRA could not recover him, then he might fall into enemy hands. If he might fall into enemy hands, then he must activate the appropriate protocol. That was it; the Soldier had to carry out his own termination. He knew how it was supposed to go. Place the pistol against the eye. Pull the trigger. Should another shot be required, that one was to go up the nose.  
But he wasn't ready, not quite. He had failed to complete the mission. He should be punished.  
The Soldier drew one of his knives, sharp and as yet unused. He slid it slowly across the posterior side of his lower arm, careful to avoid the cephalic veins. He didn't need blood. He needed pain. Spilling blood only caused a mess.  
That gave him an idea. He had, in the past, been required to torture information from targets before terminating them. The easiest way to achieve this was with a super-heated blade, one that cauterized any wound it created. For such purposes, the Soldier carried around a small oxyhydrogen torch.  
He drew it from a deep pocket on his calf. He began to heat the knife, careful not to let the metal melt. For a moment the Soldier simply lay the blade against his flesh, relishing in the hiss elicited as the tissue burned. The acrid smell was one he knew well, and it pleased him.  
Pain - granted it was inflicted for the pure purpose of pain itself - was the one sensation the Soldier was allowed. Pain during a battle had been beaten out of him. The only pain he felt was pain used as an indicator of his performance. Small amounts meant a job well done. It was praise.  
Greater pain indicated a failure or transgression. It was meant to reinforce the mistakes made. It worked, but not so much as a punishment. Merely as a form of neutral conditioning, as the Soldier had not held an aversion to pain for many decades now. It simply existed, meaning one thing or another.  
The pain that blossomed as the hot knife stabbed into his right hand was different. It was not regulated or detached. It seized his hand and wrist and twisted sharply, unpredictably, through his entire body.  
It was enrapturing.  
He pushed the knife in further, gnashing his teeth as the strands of sinew were cut and burned. The Soldier hadn't realized anything could be so intense, so enticing, so _arousing_. His body tingled as sensation swept through it and moved downward.  
To the Soldier's curiosity, he found his phallus had grown turgid and engorged with blood. It was held tightly in place by his pants, and he supposed that his suit had been engineered to do so. He decided that this meant he was not supposed to interact with it, which was fine by him. Up until that moment, he'd forgotten it was there.  
How had he gotten distracted from his goal? He would have to report that to his handlers. Or, no, he wouldn't. Not this time.  
The Soldier returned to his task, slashing at his arm with the orange metal. He grimaced, satisfied with the level of pain for the moment. He wondered momentarily if his handlers would be proud of him, but the thought was quickly replaced by the image of a face. A face full of what the Soldier registered as similar to horror and disgust, but not the same. It was an expression worn by some of his targets as they watched him kill their loved ones.  
Loved ones. How impractical.  
So why did the distraught face of this blond man make him want to vomit? It was a familiar face, but in his state of hyperstimulation he could not place it. Wanting to purge the image from his mind, he placed the hot knife against his tongue, almost screaming at the sensation.  
He held it there too long, as when he went to remove it he found a portion of his flesh was torn from its place, burned into the knife's surface. This time there was blood, and spitting it out was difficult with his currently defunct appendage, so he gulped it down as best he could. He was more nauseous now, and found that his body was not tingling like before. There was a concerning wetness in his pants.  
The same distraught face came into the Soldier's mind again, only sharper and more identifiable. The man from the helicarrier. Captain America. His-  
The thought was interrupted by the contents of his stomach making their way onto the ground next to him. Bile and blood mingled to make a frothy, sickening pink. He watched it for a few moments, unable to gather his thoughts.  
Steve. The name came to him like a _frosk in punim_ , whatever that meant. He didn't have time to be perplexed by the foreign-sounding phrase, though, because he realized he had a new mission. A mission that overrode termination protocol. A mission he remembered having, distantly, but with such veracity he wondered that he'd ever abandoned it.  
Mission objective: protect Steve Rogers.

**Author's Note:**

> For clarification, "frosk in punim" is Yiddish for "slap in the face" because I will headcanon MCU Bucky as Jewish until the day I die.  
> I considered having Bucky carving a yud into his forehead, but I figured that was overly symbolic and let it go.


End file.
